


The Generation Who Lived

by ConsentFest, lettersbyelise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Harry Potter, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Falling In Love, Getting Back Together, HP Consent Fest 2019, Interviews, Journalist Draco Malfoy, M/M, Minor Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Minor Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, POV Draco Malfoy, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Top Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsentFest/pseuds/ConsentFest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersbyelise/pseuds/lettersbyelise
Summary: In the months leading up to the 10th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy writes a series of articles about war survivors.So far, he’s managed to interview everyone he wanted.Everyone...except his old nemesis, his one-time lover, and the elusive war hero who stubbornly refuses to be featured in Draco’s interview series; Harry Potter.





	The Generation Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookywoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/gifts).



> Dear [spookywoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods), I saw your prompt and _had to have it._ I love journalist!Draco and I was interested to see how he (and also, by extension, _I)_ could explore the nuances of consent through the journalism/media lens. I hope you like what I made based on your idea.
> 
> This fic took a village. I'd like to thank: 
> 
> \- [LLAP115](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LLAP115/pseuds/LLAP115) and [timothysboxers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timothysboxers/pseuds/timothysboxers) for the initial alpha and encouragement;  
> \- My friends [dracoismytrashson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JGogoboots/pseuds/dracoismytrashson), [MaesterChill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/pseuds/MaesterChill) and [Erin_Riwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erin_Riwen/pseuds/Erin_Riwen) who enthusiastically jumped to the rescue when I asked _'what kind of questions could Draco ask in his interviews?';_  
>  \- [ElleGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LGray/profile) for her super thorough alpha/beta/heavy lifting (ily <3);  
> \- And [nerdherderette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome) and [RedHorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse) for helping me polish this fic until it was ready to post!
> 
> A huge thank you to the mods for organising this wonderful fest <333

**Prothimioscope (n.):** from the Greek _προθυμία_ (willingness) and _σκοπος_ (to see). A magical device. Indicates that a person’s speech is free, uncoerced and willing.

 

*~*~*

 

 **_The Spellbound Herald,_ ** **April 2008 issue**

 **_[Portraits Of The Generation Who Lived_ ** **series] Luna Lovegood, interviewed by Draco Malfoy**

 

> _It’s the end of winter, one of those blinding days where the slanted rays of light are more evocative of the bitter cold outside than they are of the coming warmth of spring._
> 
> _The house is all tall glass windows that bow towards the inside. The sitting room is hot, almost stuffy: a greenhouse filled with greenery. Muggle and magic plants are thrown together in a joyous cacophony of tall and stubby, leaves and stings, viridian and dark moss, a broad palette of greens._
> 
> _Luna Lovegood takes the potted Snapping Asphodel sitting on the green velvet armchair and sets it on the worn rug. She settles herself in its place, one leg folded underneath her._
> 
> _She raises large, pale, slightly unfocused eyes to me and smiles._
> 
> _**L.L.:** Hullo, Draco. I knew this day would come. We never got to properly say goodbye when I left the Manor, did we? _

 

  
In the quiet early morning stillness of the Muggle street, the knock on Luna Lovegood’s door resounded like a hammer putting the final nails in a coffin. Draco’s shaky exhalation formed white clouds in the cold air. He squeezed his hands under his arms, the leather satchel containing his notebook and Self-Inking Quick-Quotes Quill safely tucked against his chest. Come to think of it, the wizarding cloak draped across his shoulders was probably a bit conspicuous. He should have Transfigured it into something more suitable for the area—a wool peacoat, perhaps, or one of those puffy down jackets that seemed in fashion among Muggles these days. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wondering how out of place he must seem to potential onlookers.

 _Nervous._ What on earth was he nervous about? He was a professional, dammit. He had proven his worth as a journalist, hadn’t he? He was head of the Society section at the _Herald,_ for Merlin’s sake. He'd done hundreds of interviews, written hundreds of articles in his career. Just get in, ask the questions he had prepared, have Dennis come in later to snap a few pictures for the cover, and leave. Lovegood was the last interview of the series. He’d interviewed _Hermione bloody Granger._ Fleur Delacour. George Weasley. Blaise, even. He’d interviewed them all, and he had survived. What was the worst that could happen today, really? Lovegood had always been the most harmless of the bunch.

Draco's breath hitched when the door creaked open. From behind it, Luna Lovegood’s heart-shaped face appeared. She smiled at him.

_Smiled._

After all these years, people still rarely smiled at him spontaneously.

“You’re early!”

Draco fought the impulse to cast a _Tempus_ in the middle of a Muggle street. He thought he’d been on time, but maybe it was best not to start the day by contradicting her.

“I suppose I am,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s not—inconvenient, I hope. May I come in?”

“Of course.” Luna stepped back to let him in. “It’s so much warmer inside.”

And warmer, it was. Almost suffocatingly so, after the prickling cold of the outside. The air was heavy with the smell of sunlight, a misty kind of humidity, as well as something earthy that Draco couldn’t place. It was a scent that he associated more with his mother’s rose garden than with the inside of a house. Flecks of dust danced in the rays of sunshine pouring from the skylights of the foyer and the massive floor-to-ceiling bow windows at the back of the living room. Draco stopped in his tracks, his hands pausing on the knot of his scarf. The perfect curve of the windows, almost sixteen feet high, was too much of a feat of engineering to be entirely Muggle.

“My dad helped me with those.” Luna nodded towards the windows, as though reading Draco’s thoughts. “He’s always been quite keen on beautiful architectural tricks. He built the house I grew up in. Do you remember, Draco? You came to visit once, when I was six.”

Draco felt an odd pang of nostalgia at the memory. At the time, the rook-shaped house had slightly unsettled him, accustomed as he was to the strong, straight, classical lines of the Manor. He had covered his unease and had followed his little cousin up to her room while the adults had tea downstairs. It was the only time he’d been there. There was something about Luna’s mother that Lucius disapproved of, and it kept them from returning. They still saw each other on big family events throughout their childhood, but it was neither substantial nor consistent enough to build a bond based on familial ties alone.

“I liked your room,” Draco told her, for lack of a more constructive thing to say. It wasn’t a lie. Draco remembered the slight, but real, bite of envy he’d felt at the sight of Luna’s freely-painted walls, covered in a haphazard collection of family photographs and watercolour illustrations of fantastic animals Draco had never heard of.

Luna took his scarf and cloak. “Thank you, Draco. It was a nice room. That’s very kind of you to say.”

She hung Draco’s things on a coat peg and sauntered off to the living room without another word of invitation. Bewildered and hesitant, Draco followed her. Luna had always been unpredictable and hard to read. Her Hogwarts nickname flashed in Draco’s mind. _Looney Lovegood._ He gritted his teeth, wondering how much responsibility he bore in the crafting of that label. Feet sinking in a thick shagpile rug, he stepped into the living room, the deluge of sunlight momentarily blinding him.

Then he located the source of the earthy smell.

The entire back of the large room was filled with plants, rows of them, some potted, some _spilling_ from their pots, colonizing the carpet, taking root in upturned bags of dark soil. Creepers climbed on walls, over the bow windows and around beams; grass grew under armchairs. There even was a bloody palm tree whose large yellow leaves hid a nest of hard-shelled fruit, dark and downy like coconuts.

It was a veritable jungle, barely contained by the walls and windows. Draco’s feet stopped of their own accord at the threshold of the room. Once again, he found himself at a loss for words. _Great start of the interview, Draco,_ he frowned.

Luna, meanwhile, had taken a seat in the large, green velvet armchair after setting a potted Asphodel on the floor. From under the shadow of the palm tree, she smiled benignly at Draco.

“I’m glad you’re here. Most days, I only talk to the plants, you see.” She seemed to consider her words. “Well, I also talk to Neville, obviously. But the plants spend more time at home.” She giggled at her little joke. Draco smiled politely, more confused than amused.

He spotted a wooden stool and pulled it close to Luna’s armchair.

“Did the _Herald_ explain the interview process to you when they booked the appointment?” he asked her.

“They told me about the series of articles. I read the ones you’ve published so far. I really liked them. When they said _you_ were going to conduct my interview, I said yes.”

Draco’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “You said yes…because of _me?”_

“Of course! You’ve always been my favourite cousin, Draco.”

“I’m your _only_ cousin, Luna.”

Luna shrugged with a soft smile. “It doesn’t make it any less true.”

They stared at each other for a moment that seemed to stretch and stretch, Luna’s expression of placid earnestness unchanging. Eventually, Draco lifted his eyebrows, perplexed.

“Er, apologies, Luna, but if that’s the only thing they told you…I ought to be more transparent about what the interview entails.”

Luna settled into the chair, tucking a leg under her.

“All right."

With a nod, Draco pulled his satchel into his lap and took a small, round object out. Luna, face bright with curiosity, leaned in to look at the thing nestled in Draco’s palm. “Oooh, what’s that?” she asked excitedly.

“A Prothimioscope,” Draco murmured. The bronze device gyrated slowly in his palm like a spinning-top, its rounded shape glimmering in the morning sunlight. Even after years in the Prothimioscope’s company, Draco still found it fascinating to watch. It stood perfectly straight on its axis, its rotation unnaturally slow, the physical impossibility of its movement a magic all its own.

Draco bent down and set the golden top on the floor. It started to spin faster with a faint buzzing sound. Amongst the luxurious vegetation, it could have easily been mistaken for a bumblebee foraging from flower to flower.

Luna’s pale eyes were fixed on Draco, waiting for more. He sat straighter, gazing at the spinning device.

“This is something of my own invention,” he said. “Remember the war—?” He met Luna’s eyes again, and barely stopped himself from cringing. He looked away. “Remember when he...when _he_ had set his quarters at the Manor...I would manage to scavenge day-old newspapers, sometimes. I was just...I was so starved for information. I wanted to know the truth. About what was going on outside of the Manor. Outside of Hogwarts. But it was the same, constant stream of bullshit, day after day after day. I would read those papers, and the press would just write whatever the Death Eaters were feeding them. At first, I read because I needed hope—” Draco realised his hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists. He rubbed his sweaty palms over the fabric of this trousers and laughed ruefully. “Sorry; I need to find a more...politically correct introductory pitch for this thing.”

Luna tilted her head. “But I like the truth,” she said. “Who are you going to tell, if not me?”

“You make an awful lot of sense.”

Luna chuckled softly, her palm tree-shaped earrings tingling with the motion. “Does it surprise you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Draco gave her a small smile. This time though, it was entirely genuine. “So, the Prothimioscope.”

“Yes.”

“Hope is a foolish thing to cling to in times of war, isn’t it? I soon realised it was eating me alive. More than the fear. More than the curses. More than the torture and the pain I was made to inflict and witness. _Knowledge,_ on the other hand... _certainty..._ those were things I could hold on to, something real I could anchor myself with.”

“This Ravenclaw isn’t going to contradict you,” Luna smiled.

“Right.” Draco exhaled a short laugh.

“Is that why you invented the Prothimioscope?”

“During the war, there was one thought that kept nagging me as I read article after article of shite I couldn’t trust. How could one be sure that the person writing it is doing so on their own free will? Or that the person they’ve interviewed is not coerced, bribed, Imperiused, or threatened?" He gave his head a shake. "After the war, I spent three years in a juvenile rehabilitation centre for wizarding delinquents. They allowed a few hours of free activities a day. We could read, play cards or chess, listen to Quidditch games on the wireless. There were also tools and materials available to those of us who felt like working with our hands. Over the course of those three years, I made the Prothimioscope my own little project.”

“And part of your redemption, too,” Luna murmured with a small, crooked smile.

Draco felt his cheeks pink. He cleared his throat. “This is how the Prothimioscope works in a nutshell: it spins as long as the author of the article or, in the case of an interview, their respondent, is writing or speaking of their own free will. Readers have become wary of the press. There was so much misinformation during the war—even before it, if you think about it. Today, the Prothimioscope acts like a warranty. Readers are at least assured that the people involved are fully consenting to what is written.”

“You can use it here, Draco. It’s not as though I don’t trust you, anyway.”

Flustered and oddly choked by Luna’s kindness, Draco took out a roll of parchment from his satchel to cover the mounting wave of emotion. “Well. This is just for you to know what the Prothimioscope does. I still need you to sign the disclaimer, though.”

“The disclaimer?”

“Yes. This is going to be a written interview. While I’ll do my best to stick as closely as possible to your words, there can still be room for interpretation. I can still misunderstand things that you’re going to tell me. Or I can write them in a way that you feel doesn’t reflect your original meaning. By signing this, you basically consent, as part of the journalistic process, to having your words written down or interpreted in a way that you might find inaccurate.” Merlin, that part of the disclaimer always made him sound like a bloody solicitor. He rubbed the side of his jaw, embarrassed. “The author of the articles, or the newspaper company itself, cannot be held liable if you disagree with parts of the article when it comes out. Should you find yourself unhappy with the outcome of the interview, you can of course contact the newspaper about it. An erratum can be added to the next issue.”

“It’s fine,” Luna repeated. “I said I trusted you. I fully consent to this interview.”

Draco handed her a quill. She signed at the bottom of the scroll in the same loopy, diligent handwriting that Draco remembered from their childhood days. The parchment folded itself into a crane and took off. It flew in a low, graceful circle above their heads, then disappeared with a faint pop. Luna looked at Draco, amused.

“Your idea?”

“Origami is an undervalued Muggle art,” Draco smiled back. He snapped his fingers and the Quick-Quotes Quill sprang to life next to him. It hovered half an inch over a floating sheet of parchment, quivering with anticipation. “Ready when you are,” he told Luna.

Just then, the front door opened, letting a brush of cold air and a burst of familiar voices in. Luna craned her neck to see who was coming in, her eyes bright with joy.

Draco’s heart stuttered.

He had recognised the husky voice of Harry Potter alongside the soft-spoken baritone of Neville Longbottom.

He turned sharply just as the two men were walking in the living room, winter cloaks casually flung over their shoulders and carrying crates filled with potted plants and boxes of seeds.

“Hullo, Malfoy,” Neville said with a cordial nod and put down the crate he was carrying.

Harry, however, froze in the middle of the living room, wide green eyes fixed on Draco.

“Longbottom,” Draco answered politely, albeit a bit stiffly. “Long time, no see.” He turned to Harry and forced a smile. Force of habit, however, made his smile feel more like a smirk. It was also force of habit, he supposed, if his voice came out in the trademark Malfoy drawl from their Hogwarts days. “Hello, Potter. I’m beginning to believe you’re stalking me.”

Harry’s eyes glinted, hot and turbulent, and he set the crate down before plastering on his own version of a disdainful smile. The stupid bastard looked as fit as he did in Draco’s ridiculous daydreams, and Draco felt a flare of embarrassment and annoyance.

“You wish, Malfoy. I’m only here to help a friend.” To stress his point, Harry clapped Longbottom on the shoulder. He stalked closer to where Draco and Luna were sitting, glaring at Draco. “In fact, if I’d known you’d be here, I would have picked another day.”

“You know my only goal in life is to ruin your plans,” Draco shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “Although I agree it’s a shame that you came here today of all days, what with the nice wide-open schedule you must have.”

Just when Harry was opening his mouth to retort, fists clenched and eyes flashing, Longbottom cleared his throat.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt. Has the interview started?”

“We were just about to,” Luna said, cheerful and seemingly unaware of the tense atmosphere. “Draco was telling me about the Prothimioscope and how he came to invent it. If only we had this back when the _Quibbler_ was in print...Oh, but we wouldn’t have needed it. It was so obvious that every word printed in it was freely given.”

 _By your nutter of a father._ The thought popped into Draco’s head, unbidden. He fought the instinct to roll his eyes. He wasn’t the condescending person he used to be, was he? It wouldn’t do to give Harry a reason to believe him unprofessional as well as unchanged.

“Yeah, Hermione told me about that thing,” Harry muttered. “Doesn’t mean I trust it.”

“Makes you the only person in Britain, then,” Draco scoffed. Merlin, how the man had a way of pushing all of his buttons. On one occasion, _for the best_ —but mostly for the worst, in all the other times.

“It wouldn’t be the first time everybody thought I was wrong when I was right, Malfoy.”

“Then why don’t you tell me all about it in an interview, Potter?”

Harry glowered and followed Longbottom out of the room. “Please be careful, Luna.”

Frustrated, Draco closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He pushed his fringe out of his eyes before returning his attention back at Luna.

“Sorry about that,” he apologised with a tight-lipped smile. “Let’s pretend the Prat Who Lived didn’t cut us off. Where were we?”

Luna leaned back into the green velvet armchair. “You said, ‘Ready when you are.’ Are you going to ask me questions as though we don’t know each other?”

To think he’d convinced himself that Lovegood’s interview was going to be the easy one...

“Well...this is for our readers. I do know you a little, obviously, but _they’re_ keen on learning more about you _._ Your life, your experiences. So yes, some questions will sound silly because we both know the answers, but please, play along anyway.” He gave her a smile that he hoped projected self-assurance. “So, er. Hi.”

“Hullo, Draco,” Luna smiled slowly. “I knew this day would come. We never got to properly say goodbye when I left the Manor, did we? You were good to me, during that time. To Mr Ollivander, too.”

Draco almost slid off his stool. The day already felt like a cart ride down into the Gringotts vaults, and he hadn’t even started asking her questions yet. _“Good to you?_ Luna, you can’t be serious. You were held _prisoner._ In my _home.”_

“I know. And you weren’t allowed to show us kindness, or your punishment would have been worse than _our_ fate. Yet I remember how it was when it was your turn to bring us food and water: you sneaked in little pieces of bread, sometimes. They were dry and stale, as though you’d managed to scavenge them from the kitchens where they were supposed to be thrown away. You spoke softly. You didn’t cringe when our hands touched over the plate of food. You even smiled at us. Oh, Draco, I know it was your way of trying to make us feel something—make us feel better, more human, more worthwhile. But...your smile was worse than tears, really. As though you would rather happily trade places with me than go back to them. It made my heart ache for you. I could hear screams upstairs, sometimes, through the ceiling. Thuds, like bodies falling to the ground. I always hoped they weren’t you.”

She stopped and glanced at the Prothimioscope that was still spinning and buzzing cheerily on the carpet. The hot atmosphere from a few moments ago had turned to ice against Draco’s skin, the air frozen in his lungs. He swallowed thickly. Fingers trembling, he shifted through his question cards, hoping to find a way to regain his composure.

“Erm. Here’s a question for you.” _Brilliant, Malfoy, really brilliant; spoken like a pro._ “You were among the personalities suggested by our readers when we asked who best embodied the Second Wizarding War generation. Did you know that people look up to you like that? How do you feel about it?”

Luna tore her gaze away from the hypnotic spin of the Prothimioscope and blinked. “Oh. I thought the newspaper contacted me because of my work. And Neville’s job. They’re much more interesting than the war, really.”

Draco hesitated and the Quick-Quotes Quill stilled over the parchment. “But...Luna, the series is called _Portraits Of The Generation Who Lived._ It’s precisely about survivors of the Second Wizarding War. The interview is mainly about you being a war hero.”

“Is that what I am?”

“That’s how people think of you, yes.”

Luna stared at him. Her eyes were unsettling. “Do they? Well. You asked how I felt about people looking up to me for being a war hero. I don’t... _feel_ a certain way about it. I didn’t know this was why the _Herald_ contacted me for the interview. I thought it was because of my work as a Magizoologist. It’s a line of work I would have fallen into no matter what, but the war just consolidated my aspirations. Voldemort’s despicable speciest ideology left so many creatures on the brink of extinction. So many natural habitats were destroyed in Britain. This is how I dealt with the aftermath of the war, Draco. I saw an opportunity to be useful before it was too late. I wanted to avoid ever having to say in the future, ‘Gather ‘round, little ones, and let me tell you how I grew up at a time when centaurs and dinosaurs were still populating the forests of the world.’”

“Er. Dinosaurs have been extinct for 65 million years, Luna.”

“That’s what they want you to think, Draco,” she answered with a sweet, candid smile. “Mainstream media, that is. It’s not your fault. You work for them, after all.”

Taken aback, Draco looked down at his question cards. As expected, he couldn’t find an answer to his predicament there. “All right. So the war encouraged you on your path to become Britain’s leading Magizoologist, which makes a lot of people consider you—quite justly, I might add—a prominent figure of the post-Second Wizarding War generation.”

Luna took a moment to consider him. “We are the same age, Draco,” she said thoughtfully after a while. “We’re the same generation. We went through the same events, at the same time. It’s funny that they would think that about me, but not about you, don’t you think?”

Draco gaped. “Luna...we might have gone through the same things at the same time, but...we were quite literally on opposing sides of the war. The public views our experiences as vastly different; I hope you can understand that. And they certainly do not want to hear my version of those events.”

“Maybe,” Luna said, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “But you of all people should know: just because the public says so, doesn’t _actually_ make you less worthy to be heard.”

 

*~*~*

 

Draco and Luna had moved to the brightly-lit kitchen when Longbottom returned with Harry in tow.

Luna had suggested a cup of tea at the end of the first hour of the interview. The rhythm of questions and answers had been gruelling, more so for Draco than for Luna, he suspected. He’d brought the Prothimioscope and his notes with him when they’d moved to the kitchen. The golden top was still spinning brightly on the thick wooden counter covering the central island, indicating the interview was still in progress despite the informal setting.

“Hello, love. How’s the interview going? Is Malfoy being nice?” Longbottom took the proffered cup of tea from Luna’s hands and kissed the top of her head. Draco felt an odd pang of fondness and sadness at the casual display. Standing in the kitchen’s threshold, Harry wore a similarly wistful expression.

“It’s a pleasure,” Luna smiled contentedly. “As always, when Draco is involved.”

A soft, snorting noise came from the doorway, poorly hidden by a fake-sounding cough.

“Are you all right, Potter?” Draco glared at Harry over his shoulder. “You seem to be coming down with a cold. I’d offer you a lozenge, but I only have the ones for adults.”

“Erm,” Longbottom chimed in. “I actually came to get Luna for a minute. We received fresh _Carnivorous Phytoplasma_ seeds from Borneo, and they’re behaving strangely and...yeah.”

Draco lifted his hands in surrender. “Of course! Real life takes precedence. I’ll wait here.”

“Oh, thank you, Draco!” Luna stopped in front of him on her way out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back. I’m learning so much, this interview is so interesting! But so are _Carnivorous Phytoplasmas,_ and the seeds are always highly unstable, and they could explode any minute if we don’t attend to them.”

“Then by all means, please go,” Draco called after her as she disappeared round the corner. In the ensuing silence, he glanced at Harry, who was still standing on the other side of the kitchen. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. It somehow melted Draco’s acrimony away. He wished he could wipe the anxious look off Harry’s face, replace it with—

Past images filled his mind, unbidden, stealing his breath. _Harry’s mouth against his throat, his eager hands pushing his shirt down his shoulders, the ridge of his hard cock against Draco’s thigh making him yearn for more, yearn for_ Harry _like he hadn’t yearned for anyone else—_

It was a cruel twist of fortune that Draco had seen Harry more times in the past month than he had since that ill-fated night two years ago.

When Harry had been anything but evasive.

When Harry had been...

Oh, for Circe’s sake. _Get it out of your head, Draco._ They were adults. And he didn’t want Harry to be upset and annoyed by his presence.

Harry walked closer to the kitchen island.

As he did, the Prothimioscope braked on the countertop and hit the wooden surface with a soft _thunk._

“You’re still doing the interviews, I see.”

His tone was carefully neutral. Draco’s hand itched for his wand.

“I am,” he said. Then, because he couldn’t resist, “Considering I’m the one who came up with the idea of the series, you’d _think_ it makes sense.”

“Believe me when I say, that piece of information escaped my notice.”

“Voluntarily?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How much effort do you put into avoiding me?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. Draco watched the bob of his Adam’s apple with some satisfaction. So much for not wanting to upset him.

Harry grabbed the teapot Luna had left on the counter and aggressively poured himself a cup of tea.

“Please don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy,” he muttered.

Draco took a deep steadying breath. Some good could still come out of this encounter, and he knew how to turn a situation to his advantage. He hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin for nothing, after all.

“Look, I was only half-joking. I know the newspaper contacted you on my behalf. Several times, actually. If I could get one person to participate in the series...as much as it pains me to admit it, it would be _you.”_

Harry threw Draco a look over his shoulder. “Of course it bloody well would be. The crowning jewel of your career, really.” He turned towards Draco and set his teacup on the wooden countertop. He leaned on his elbows and peered into Draco’s eyes for a long moment.

Draco held his breath.

Then Harry smirked. “Too bad I said _no,_ Malfoy.”

Draco clenched his fists in frustration. “Why did you?” He rose to his full height. “Don’t you see? This isn’t about _me._ This—this isn’t about _you,_ either! This is bigger than us. This is about talking to the public for the first time since the fucking war, Potter! This is about showing people like you, people who went through hell like you, survivors of _war_ —Harry, this is about showing them that they’re not alone! That even their absolute hero is like them! This is about—about giving people _hope!”_

“I have no obligation to show anything to anyone,” Harry told him, eyes blazing, a mulish tilt to his jaw. “I never have, and I never will. Especially if it means I have to let my words be distorted by someone like you!”

“Fine! Fair enough! As a journalist, I deserve your distrust,” Draco gritted his teeth. “I was a stupid little brat back at Hogwarts. When we were fucking _fifteen,_ Harry. And I apologised, again and again, for having fed gossip and false accusations to someone as morally questionable as Rita Skeeter. But maybe if you didn’t go out of your way to make sure you never heard about what I’ve been up to since the war, you’d know I’m striving, every fucking day, to become the opposite of her. To become the opposite of the little brat I was, for that matter. I’m striving to become what I think a great journalist should be. What I think a good _person_ should be.” He exhaled a mirthless laugh. “Merlin. If me interviewing you is the only thing preventing you from doing this series, then someone else can do it. Believe me, they’d fall over themselves at work for a chance to interview the great Harry Potter. That’s how much this _isn’t_ about _me._ That’s how much I want this to happen.”

“Well, here’s the thing, Malfoy.” Harry met his eye. His were simmering with anger, and something pained and weary that Draco couldn’t place. “You’re right when you say this isn’t about you. This is, however, about _me._ And your clever little invention here,” he gestured at the Prothimioscope lying motionless against the countertop, “seems to have understood that better than you have. I don’t want my name in the papers. I’ve heard that little speech too many times, I’m afraid. Since the war...too many things were supposed to be different. Too many people claim to have changed.” He paused, then shook his head. “I’m not confident that they have.”

“Harry...” Draco deflated, dismay slowly seeping into his chest, weighing down his limbs. “You _know_ I have. You _know_ it. We were— _almost friends,_ once.”  He swallowed. “You know _me.”_

Harry pinned him with a weary gaze. “I’m not sure I do.”

 

*~*~*

 

 **_The Spellbound Herald,_ ** **March 2008 issue**

 **_[Portraits Of The Generation Who Lived_ ** **series] Hermione Granger, interviewed by Draco Malfoy**

 

> _Hermione Granger sips her Earl Grey and takes a moment to ponder my question. She sets her cup on the beautiful glass coffee table and rubs her socked feet against the shaggy grey rug on the hardwood floors of her living room. Her dark eyes are piercing and determined when she looks at me._
> 
> **_D.M.:_ ** _You’re one of the most influential political figures of the post-war decade. Among your accomplishments, I could mention your unwavering advocacy for the rights of all magical beings as well as your role in the abolition of speciest categorisations among them. Your determination to change the old ways of our magical world made you more famous than your role in the war as part of the lauded ‘Golden Trio’. Today, you’re even named as favourite to win the next Minister for Magic election. How did you accomplish so much in only ten years?_
> 
> **_H.G.:_ ** _I’m flattered that the public thinks so highly of me as to expect me to win such an prominent election. Still, I believe my actions merely sped up forces that had been in motion for years before. I joined the magical world at a time when it was staggeringly divided, as you know. Voldemort had been gone for a decade, but his ideologies were still going strong among a fringe of the magical population. On the other hand, magical minorities were beginning to gain political consciousness and power—Goblins, Centaurs, Veela, to name a few._ [shrugs] _You could say I was in the right place at the right time, ironically...if beginning my magical life right at the epicentre of the most destructive war of the century could be considered that._
> 
> **_D.M.:_ ** _Do you think the pace of change has been fast enough since the war?_
> 
> **_H.G.:_ ** _Well...the social and political climates are nothing like they were when I was younger, thank Merlin. The wizarding world was so...antiquated, back then. So closed off from the rest of the world. That only provided fodder for division—for hatred and war. Even our school system was participating in it._ [frowns, gestures] _Remember when we were sorted into rival houses at the young, impressionable age of eleven? It was a tradition unfit for the twentieth century. I’m incredibly proud of our magical communities for tackling those issues head on. Children today are more aware of the world at large, more united and more tolerant of differences. Still, given my political orientation, it won’t come as a surprise if I say i don’t think change is happening as fast as I wish. Change is one thing—but_ consolidating _it in a lasting manner is another. We live in an era of progressive dynamics, yes._ [pauses.] _However, I do not think it will last forever, nor that retrograde forces won’t come into play in the future. We have to work every day to remember the lessons of our past. Otherwise, what will stop the next Dark witch or wizard to proclaim ‘things were better in the past’ when our generation is no longer around? Who will remind our children and grandchildren that history, sadly, can repeat itself?_

 

*~*~*

 

Draco and Luna went back to the sunroom. The sun was higher in the sky, casting a cold, white light that somehow turned warm and pleasant, filtered through the greenhouse-like windows of Luna’s home. Through the slightly foggy glass, Draco could make out the back garden, its grass yellow and brittle from the unforgiving winter, its frost-covered fences glimmering in the midday glare. Inside, the sunroom smelled like a luxurious summer day.

Luna settled in her green armchair with a contented sigh, as though this was a friendly conversation and not the most nerve-racking interview Draco had conducted in recent memory.

“Don’t forget the Prothimioscope,” she said. She smiled fondly when Draco placed the device on the carpet and it turned upright and started to spin around. Its low, characteristic buzz soothed Draco a bit. He snapped his fingers and the Quick-Quotes Quill sprang to life, tip on the parchment and ready for his next notes.

“One thing I think all our readers are interested to know, Luna, is how you moved on after the war. Do you want to tell me more about that?”

Luna looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought.

“After the Battle of Hogwarts,...I wanted some peace and quiet. Like Harry,” she added, nodding toward the back of the living room. Draco turned to find Harry standing in the threshold, listening gravely.

“Do you mind if he’s here?” Draco asked.

“Not at all. Do you?”

“No,” Draco admitted. “As long as he doesn’t disturb the interview. Think you can do that, Potter?” he called over his shoulder.

Harry flipped him two fingers but smiled grudgingly.

“Good. Sorry about the interruption, Luna. You wanted peace and quiet…?”

“I did. I had just turned seventeen. I had access to my vaults, so with my mum’s inheritance, I took a trip to Norway and Sweden. I wanted to research the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. I would have loved to be the first person to document a sighting.”

“Did you find one?” Draco asked, although he already knew the answer.

“No,” Luna shook her head, wistful. “Sadly, to this day, I haven’t been able to _prove_ its existence. One thing that trip confirmed, though, was my passion for Magizoology. So when I came back to England after six months studying various Scandinavian creatures in their natural habitats, I applied for a degree at the Newt Scamander School in Cambridge.”

“So your career path was a strong, personal choice?”

“Being a Magizoologist is a calling. I’m very aware of how lucky I am. People assume that I live in my own little world, and maybe I do. But I also know that not everybody knows what they want to do with their lives. Neville and I devote our lives to magical species conservation. In a way, we turned down a lot of other paths we could have taken instead. But...it’s our passion. We just don’t see the other life paths anymore. Our work is what truly matters.”

“Would you say diving into the massive task that awaited you after the war helped you move on, then?”

“Definitely. So many magical species were on the brink of extinction—the ones Voldemort and his followers didn’t deem useful or important enough, at least. The public didn’t know about that. Or maybe they didn’t think it was a priority.” She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. She smiled ruefully. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How people like to prioritise good causes by order of... _nobility._ The _Daily Prophet_ attacked me for it. There were a few articles published about how I was wasting my time and energy saving animals when there were people who had lost their homes, who had sustained grave injuries, who were missing loved ones. As if one cause was exclusive to another.” She raised her eyes to Draco, and he nodded for her to continue. “I didn’t read the articles. I’ve never paid attention to what people said about me. I see my work as part of a big picture that everyone will benefit from in the end. I can only paint a small part of it—but I can do it well, and meaningfully. That’s what kept me going. That’s what helped me push away memories of flashing curses and burnt flesh. Defining the role I wanted to play in our post-war world was my way of moving on.”

Draco shuffled his question cards, looking for the next thing to say. There was an odd lump in his throat that made it harder for him to speak right away. After a pause, he asked in a rather raspy voice, “Apologies for another personal question, but our readers are keen on finding out more about your relationship with Neville Longbottom. You’re one of England’s favourite celebrity couples. They even have a name for you: Luneville. Did you know that?”

Luna’s face lit up. She clapped her hands together. “Oooh, how adorable! People are the funniest. It’s understandable, though. Neville and I met in the most romantic way.”

Draco lifted his eyebrows. “Didn’t you meet in school?”

“Yes. I noticed Neville right away. He was so passionate about Herbology, it was impossible not to be drawn to him.”

Abashed, Draco thought of the abundant fun he’d made of Neville Longbottom precisely for his love of Herbology, a subject matter his younger self didn’t deem worthy of his time and ambition.

“Er, all right. I didn’t know you started a relationship while both of you were at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, we didn’t. We became close during his last year there. Then he graduated and left to pursue an Herbology scholarship in Sao Paulo. We met again, years later, when I managed to locate the last _Carnivorous Phytoplasma_ in England. The _Carnivorous Phytoplasma_ is a plant and mammal hybrid, see? I had the Magizoologist knowledge, but I needed an Herbology Master, preferably one with a rare plants specialty. My university suggested I contact Neville...and the rest is history, as people say.”

“More than a work _collaboration_ , you seem to have developed a veritable work... _symbiosis_ with Longbottom.”

“What a fitting term, Draco. It’s wonderful.” Luna beamed. “I’m so glad you picked a career as a journalist. You have such a way with words.”

“Thanks?” Draco shifted on his stool. “Anyway...would you say your relationship played a part in your post-war reconstruction as well?”

“Do you mean...love?” She lifted her eyebrows. Draco had the uncomfortable feeling that he had walked right into his own trap, backed himself in a corner of his own making. Why had he even asked that question? What did he even know about love?

Luna chose to ignore his cowering. She laughed, but not unkindly.

“Did _love_ play a part in my reconstruction?” she repeated. “Of course, Draco. Of all the questions in this interview, this one is the silliest. The fact that you’d even ask it tells me a lot more about _you_ than it does about _me.”_

 

*~*~*

 

When Dennis Creevey rang the doorbell, Luna jumped off her armchair to greet him. Draco welcomed the break. He felt oddly wrung out, his shirt sticking to his armpits in an uncomfortable, cold sweat. He cast a tired _Tempus:_ one o’clock. A few more hours to go, then he would be free to go back to the office and wrap up the last article of the series. He let them while Dennis set up the equipment for the photoshoot. Dragging his feet, he walked to the kitchen.

Harry was already there, buttering a piece of toast. He lifted his head when he heard Draco come in.

_Fuck. Was he everywhere inside this house?_

Harry lifted the plate. “Do you want one?”

“Sure. Yes. Thanks.”

“I’m making tea for everyone.”

There was a faint line between Harry’s eyebrows, as if saying that pained him. The sight of it rankled.

“Do you need to remind me that you wouldn’t do anything specifically for me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry snapped, defensive.

“Sure, it wasn’t.” Draco snatched a piece of toast and bit into it.

“Oi! I was making this into a sandwich.”

“Don’t bother. I like it that way.”

“Plain toast?”

“Shut up.”

“Nice repartee, Malfoy.” Harry put his hands on his hips, looking smug. “Or are you just bitter after Luna called you out on your question?”

“Which one? Every answer that woman gives me hits a little too close to home.”

Harry chuckled. “It’s true, but you know which one I’m talking about. Nobody likes to be reminded of their lack of experience when it comes to love.”

His beautiful green eyes crinkled at the corners. The lines weren’t there two years ago. They fit the gorgeous prat, though. It made him look different. Normal. Natural. As though he and Draco were still good friends. Friends who’d slept together two years prior, certainly, but friends nonetheless.

Harry’s effortless good looks and their effect on Draco only fed his simmering annoyance. Draco took a deep breath.

“You seem to know an awful lot about my love life, Potter, for someone who supposedly doesn’t give a shite.”

For a second, Harry looked like he’d been slapped. Then he scowled, a dark glint in his eyes. “You’re absolutely correct. I do _not_ give a shite.”

“Really?” The tiny flicker in Harry’s eyes was gone, elusive like a Snitch, and Draco felt heat flare in his gut. He took a step closer, moving into Harry’s space. “Why is that, Harry? Why don’t you give a shite? Why was it that I never heard from you after—” His hands were itching to grab Harry’s collar. He let out a shaky breath. “All you wanted back then was to get fucked, was that it? One night with me, no strings attached, just the thrill of getting defiled by me, of getting your arse plowed by dirty, tainted Draco Malfoy? I bet it felt good, Harry. I bet it felt _fantastic.”_ He lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. “Oh wait; I was there, too. It was bloody _marvelous._ But apparently, an ex-Slytherin, ex-Death Eater lover was not advantageous enough for the Saviour’s public image.”

Fuck, he was panting, and Harry was, too. His breath was so hot against Draco’s face...so hot. Scorching. Draco realised he had moved close enough to see the flecks of gold in Harry’s irises.

He took a step back. “I don’t know if you show up at your friends’ when I’m interviewing them by coincidence or to keep an eye on me, because Merlin forbid I’ve become trustworthy. I don’t know if you’re here to rile me up, or to tease me endlessly with something I’ll never have.”

 _“Something you’ll never have?”_ Harry scoffed. “You _could_ have had it. I just wasn’t up to your _high standards,_ apparently.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. _“My_ standards? _You_ weren't up to _my_ standards _?_ Harry—do you even realise how long I—?” He threw his hands up in defeat. “You know what? This isn't the time or place to sort this out. I've work to do; now, if you'll excuse me.”

“Draco—”

“Leave it. It doesn’t matter. I don’t give a fuck why you never sought me out again after that night. I just—I just wish you’d respect my work enough to stay out of it, if you choose to refuse to take part in it. Like Luna’s work, it’s my fucking _vocation,_ Potter. It’s my passion. It’s my reparation. Respect that, if you don’t respect anything else.”

And without another look at Harry, Draco strode out of the kitchen.

 

*~*~*

 

 **_The Spellbound Herald,_ ** **February 2008 issue**

 **_[Portraits Of The Generation Who Lived_ ** **series] Blaise Zabini, interviewed by Draco Malfoy**

 

> _Blaise Zabini meets me in a cafe near his office in Muggle London. His fiancée_ [Editor’s note: Ginny Weasley, Star Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies] _is home, catching up on sleep after a five-hour Portkey trip from New Zealand._
> 
> _Zabini is a free spirit, a leading figure of the new, wizarding avant-garde, and a visionary designer who brought Muggle trends into wizarding fashion and radically changed the way we dress—and subsequently see ourselves as a community._
> 
> _He's also a former Slytherin._
> 
> **_D.M.:_ ** _There was enormous backlash when your relationship to Ginevra Weasley became public. Why do you think that was?_
> 
> **_B.Z.:_ ** _Do you know how most people end their statements about me, even ten years after the war? ‘He's hard working..._ for a Slytherin. _He's keeps his head down..._ for a Slytherin.’ _In the public eye, my Slytheriness still pervades everything I do, everything I am. As though we are all still in school, old prejudices sticking to our skins like wet rags_ [Editor’s Note: Zabini and his family stayed neutral during the Second Wizarding War]. _It doesn’t affect how I think of myself, how I define myself. But I can see it in the slanted looks people slide me when they find out in which house the Sorting Hat put me in when I was eleven. Ginny never made me feel that way. We always felt like—us. Right from the start. But a Slytherin and a Gryffindor together...for almost everyone else, it was unacceptable.  And for me to come along after Ginny’s famous ex...even though they’d split almost immediately after school, I believe the public always held the secret hope that their golden couple would get back together. When the news of our engagement fell in the hands of the press, it wasn’t pleasant._
> 
> **_D.M.:_ ** _How so?_
> 
> **_B.Z.:_ ** _Ginny received dozens of letters a day for weeks. Mostly from witches who begged her to see reason, or wondered if she was right in the head for leaving Harry Potter for a despicable man like me. And...I received a few death threats. The DMLE had me confined to my home for weeks until they traced the sources of those letters._
> 
> **_D.M.:_ ** _That’s truly terrible. I’m sorry._
> 
> **_B.Z.:_ ** _I never regretted it. Ginny brings me more joy, balance, and inspiration than those_ [Edited] _could ever steal from me._
> 
> **_D.M.:_ ** _It seems like a disproportionate reaction to something as positive as a healthy, loving commitment._
> 
> **_B.Z.:_ ** _Agreed. When I studied fashion design after Hogwarts, one of my biggest inspirations was a Muggle named Yves Saint Laurent. Saint Laurent was a visionary artist, an understated revolutionary. He once said,_ ‘My weapon is the way I look at our time.’ _You know what? This quote stayed with me. Because we_ do _have the power to change the world. The way we embrace life, the way we view the world..._ that’s _our greatest weapon. We could use it for division and destruction. Or we can use it for unity._
> 
> _My work as a designer was inspired by that very philosophy. Many criticised me for it. Muggle influences in wizarding fashion? That would have been unthinkable twenty years ago. Yet, I was doing it. Why not? Wizards, Muggles—we’re not so different, after all. No more than Slytherins and Gryffindors. Sure, the world becomes much more complex when you stop looking at it in black and white. But...why would anyone in their right mind refuse to see all its colours?_

 

*~*~*

 

Beyond the bay windows, the sun was dipping towards the horizon.

The Prothimioscope was buzzing at the foot of Luna’s armchair. Quiet and innocuous like the glossy black beetle that was attempting to scale the potted Asphodel nearby, the golden device anchored Draco in the moment. A mundane, reassuring reminder that this was just another day at Draco’s job, even though it felt like anything but. He didn’t regret coming up with the idea of the _Portraits_ series, he just...

He just wished working on it wouldn’t constantly paint him into a corner. He had atoned for a lot of his past. He had made his peace with it.

He hadn’t realised that this project would also expose the imperfections of his _present,_ however—and rub them in his face.

“You said you had one last question.” Luna’s dreamy voice brought him back. Her right hand hung from her side, her fingers stroking the leaves of the Asphodel like she would a pet.

Draco gave her a smile. The muscles in his cheeks felt stiff. “Yes. Then you’re free to go.” He uncrossed his legs, leaned in, and took a breath. It was the same question he asked all his other interviewees, the one he liked to conclude on. “What is the thing people get wrong the most about you? I suppose you are confronted with a few false assumptions, given your past and your status.”

“My status?”

“Your...status, yes. As a survivor of the Second Wizarding War.”

“Hmm.” Thoughtful, she tapped a leaf with the tip of her nail. The plant crawled up and wrapped itself around her finger. She smiled, a sad softness to her expression. “‘War survivor’. It’s all in the label, isn’t it? Being constantly labeled ‘survivor’...it permeates everything. Every conversation, every gesture, every new relationship you make. It gave me a certain amount of power, it’s true. People leave me alone, most of the time. I can devote myself to my research. I can be quiet. I can not talk to people for days.

“‘She’s a survivor,’ they’ll say. They’ll make excuses for me. But it’s also so...confining. It’s like being in this gilded cage. If I reach out, if I open up, if I share too much, people get scared. ‘I’m not equipped for this,’ they’ll say. ‘Why don’t you seek professional help?’ But at the end of the day, I’m just _myself._ I’m not some role model to be put on a pedestal or coddled just because I’ve lived through a war.

“Yes, I do have days where it’s harder to shut the memories out. Yes, I still have nightmares. Yes, sometimes I wish I didn’t have to live through what I’ve lived through. It’s made me who I am. But it’s only _part_ of what makes me who I am. The rest is...the rest is my friendships, my family, my work. My memories from Hogwarts—yes, those too. The rest is Neville, our animals, our plants. Our home. Our future.

“This is what people get wrong the most, Draco. That even war survivors move on. It’s always there, written in our flesh, seared into our brains. But it’s not constant. There are minutes, hours, days even, when I forget. I don’t think the public will like to read this, but it’s true. I forget about the war, sometimes. My friends and I...we’re still here. Our plants keep growing, and life goes on.”

The scratching of the Quick-Quotes Quill on the floating parchment was the only sound in the room until it finished writing down the last sentence.

A coconut-shaped fruit fell from the palm tree nearby with a muffled _thunk._

Luna beamed.“Is that all? Oh no, does that mean you’re going to leave already?”

“I…” Draco blinked, then gave himself a shake. “Yes, that was all. I thought it was a rather full day—”

“It was brilliant. I’m so happy your assistant called me to schedule this interview.” She got up and drifted off toward the kitchen. Draco hurriedly stuffed the rolls of parchment and the quill in his satchel. He snatched the Prothimioscope from the floor and followed her.

Harry was in the kitchen, rinsing his hands under the tap. He had dirt under his fingernails from working in the garden with Longbottom all afternoon. He looked cozy and at home, and Draco’s heart ached at the sight.

“Both of you can stay a while longer,” Luna said, putting the kettle on. “I enjoy having you over.”

Draco shifted on his feet. Being in the same room as Harry reawakened the silent yearning he’d felt for years. If he remained in this room any longer, it might stay with him indefinitely, an indelible longing he’d have to carry around in his chest forever.

That was what Harry could do to him, if Draco let him.

“Maybe another time. I have to review my notes and put everything together.”

“Oh, don’t rush! I’m putting the kettle on!” Luna waved her wand and conjured two tea cups. “Let’s make you a cuppa. And Harry, too. Here.” Luna gave a cup to Draco, and the other one to Harry once he finished drying his hands.

“Er, thanks, Luna,” Harry muttered. He slid Draco a look. When Draco met his gaze, he swiftly looked away.

The kettle boiled. An awkward silence settled as Luna filled the teapot and fetched them all milk.

Draco realised he still held the Prothimioscope in his hand. He set it on the central island and the little bronze device started spinning, its gentle buzz filling the hush of the kitchen.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Longbottom burst into the kitchen from behind him.

“Luna!” Neville skidded to a stop when he saw Harry and Draco there as well. “Erm. I didn’t know you weren’t done.”

“We are,” Luna grinned. “We were just making tea.”

“The Barbican firecalled. Their conservatory is having trouble with a couple of Ginger Lilies. Apparently, they’re not as Muggle as they’d believed.”

Luna jumped to her feet. “Oh, no! Do they need us now?”

Neville nodded frantically. “They need us now.”

Luna turned to Draco, then Harry. “What a shame. They need us now.”

“We might be gone an hour,” Neville added.

“Or three.”

“Oh. Three hours?” He looked at Luna, who gave him an emphatic nod. He jumped. _“Yes!_ Yes, most certainly three hours.”

“Bye, Draco! Bye, Harry!” Luna ran after Neville, who was already in the foyer, fastening his cloak. “Do wait for us, if you don’t mind! We can have supper together when we get back!”

The front door banged shut.

The Prothimioscope kept spinning.

Alone in the quiet kitchen, Draco and Harry shared a look.

“Subtle,” Harry said eventually, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth. Hands in his jeans pockets, he looked almost apologetic.

“Yes, really subtle,” Draco smiled back. A shy smile, but a smile, nonetheless. “I expected nothing less from the woman who left me feeling like I’d been beaten in the gut all day by a very persistent truth stick.”

“I thought truth was your _passion.”_

“To a point, Potter. I’m not masochistic.”

Harry pushed his hands deeper in his pockets and hung his head.

“Look, Draco. I’m not masochistic, either. That’s the reason why I never contacted you after Ginny and Blaise’s engagement party. Since we’re on the subject of truth...there’s something you should know.”

Draco stood still.

“What is it?”

He whispered, as if they’d been exchanging secrets.

Harry took a breath. “That night we spent together...the next morning, I was there. When Pansy asked you about me...I heard what you told her.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. He set his tea cup on the counter, his hands slow and clumsy, and it rattled against the wood.

Draco remembered that conversation, indeed.

Very vividly.

Blaise and Ginny had booked a large cottage for their engagement party weekend. All their friends had slept over, including him and Harry. Although, perhaps, they had slept slightly less than the others.

He’d run into Pansy in the kitchen the next morning, his t-shirt rumpled, his hair a mess, his chin and cheeks pink with a tell-tale stubble burn. With a playful, knowing smirk, she’d teased him about ‘finally getting a leg over Potter’. Embarrassed and laughing, he’d waved her off.

 _“Potter?”_ he’d said. _“What kind of boor do you take me for, you mad bint? I have fucking_ standards, _for Circe’s sake._ Nothing _happened.”_

“Nothing happened.” Out loud in the hush of the kitchen, Draco repeated the words he’d spoken two years ago.

“Precisely.”

“Harry.” Draco stared at him, appalled. “I’m so sorry. I—I was just brushing Pansy off.”

“Were you?” Harry’s frown almost hid the hurt in his eyes. Almost.

“Of course! You and I had just spent our first night together! I wasn’t ready to discuss any of it with my friends. I wasn’t ready to discuss it with anyone. Except perhaps with you. And the next time I saw you, you avoided me like the plague.”

“I had my pride.”

“You don’t say.” Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He could _not_ believe it. _Just his fucking luck;_ he’d thrown a few dismissive words at Pansy, and _of course_ they’d fallen on Harry’s Gryffindor-levels-of-stubborn ears. “Two years we lost because of your _damned pride.”_

“Oh, because it’s all _my_ fault, now? Can’t you ever be straightforward, Draco? Even with your friends?”

Draco snorted, a bitter sound that he instantly hated. “Okay, now you’re just describing _Gryffindors._ It may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t go around telling everyone everything that’s on my mind at any given time. Even my friends. I had the most ridiculous crush on you for years. I’d just spent the night with you. I needed time to process what happened between us...what could happen after. I wasn’t ready to regale Pansy with stories about your favourite position or the size of your dick.”  

“I wasn’t the only one involved. Why was it _my_ responsibility to decide what came next? You could have _tried_ to contact me.”

“Oh, please. When I went back to our room that day, you were _gone._ I know dismissal when I see it, Harry. I was rejected by you once before, when we were kids. Twice was quite enough. I didn’t fancy a third, just to make sure.”

Harry squared his jaw. “I know _I_ would have called you, if I were in your place.”

“And yet you didn’t, from _your_ place.”

“You’d given me reason to believe you wouldn’t bother with me again.”

“And you dashed off so bloody fast that day, I was certain you regretted our night together. Of course I wasn’t going to firecall you. You see, I usually prefer my men fully enthusiastic about a relationship with me.”

“Oh? And how’s that worked for you so far?”

“Don’t be an arse. Have you only come here to remind me of my lack of worth—both professional and personal?”

“The only thing I’m saying is that you’re still alone all these years later, and so am I. There’s a reason for it.”

“The reason is that I’m a war criminal.”

“You’re reformed.”

“Oh, yes, a _reformed war criminal!”_ Draco clapped his hands, mock relieved. “That’s the title of my ad at the matrimonial agency. So much better. I truly am a catch! How do the single gentlemen of Britain not know?”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Harry rolled his eyes. “I know for a fact that you don’t suffer from a lack of suitors, Draco.”

 _“Suitors?”_ Draco scoffed. “Nice word, Potter. What am I, the heroine of a nineteenth century novel?”

“Maybe you’re alone because you want to be.” Harry ignored Draco’s jab and stalked closer, a purposeful look on his face. “Maybe you’re alone because you can’t be with the person you want. Maybe you’re an idiot and you fucked up the first time. And you regret it terribly, but since you’re a circuitous git, you can’t choose the path of least resistance. So you keep hoping that if you run into him, time and again, one day he'll look at you like he did that night. Like something was _starting,_ and not like something you’d both come to regret.”

Draco swallowed. “How would you know?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Harry was very close. Draco’s eyes fell to his lips.

“Harry…”

Harry’s eyes turned darker. “Yes.”

“What—?”

“Kiss me.”

“Harry—”

 _“Please._ Will you _kiss me,_ Draco?”

“Yes. Yes.”

It was all the indication Harry needed, because a second later, he was grabbing Draco by the collar of his shirt and pushing him up against the countertop lining the side of Luna’s kitchen.

“Umpff, Harry—” Draco gasped, then Harry’s lips were on his, hungry and purposeful, claiming his mouth, swallowing Draco’s moans. Draco let himself melt into Harry’s embrace. He let himself be kissed, opening his mouth at the first touch of Harry’s tongue on his bottom lip. The edge of the countertop dug into the small of his back, but he barely felt it. Harry’s soft, wet tongue was in his mouth, and suddenly it was like someone had set Draco’s blood on fire. Want rushed through him, a wave of lust so powerful his knees almost buckled, and then he was kissing Harry back. Hands in Harry’s hair, he pulled him closer and kissed him, his tongue caressing Harry’s with a slow, teasing intent that was at odds with the way his entire body screamed, _urged_ him to push and bite and take and claim. With one last lick across Harry’s swollen lips, he pulled back an inch.

A frustrated growl escaped Harry’s mouth.

“Do you want me?” Draco breathed against his lips.

“Yes.” Immediate. No hesitation. Draco took Harry’s chin in his hand.

“Say it. _Do you want me?”_

Harry pulled back just a bit more. Draco stared. What a sight Harry made: mouth open, lips pink and wet, eyes dark with need. He was the most mind-blowing thing Draco had ever seen. It wasn’t just the way he looked, but just the fact that he was who he was. Harry Potter. _Harry._ Draco wanted to curl up and live in those green eyes forever.

“I want you.” Harry’s rasp reverberated from his chest to Draco’s. “I want you—” he thrust his hips forward, and Draco fought not to let his eyes roll back at the heavenly friction. “God, Draco,” Harry growled, “I want you to fuck me. Now.”

Draco shook his head. Twisting his wrist, holding Harry’s chin more firmly, he forced Harry to make eye contact with him.

“Not just _now._ Not just my cock in you _now._ Do you want _me?”_

They stared. Draco’s chest felt tight and Harry swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“I want you,” Harry whispered. “I want you now. I want you when we’re done. I want you tomorrow.” He leaned in. “I want _you,_ Draco.”

“I’ve wanted you,” Draco whispered back. “For so long—”

“Later. Now— _this.”_ Harry dropped his hand and cupped Draco’s erection through his trousers.

“Fuck— _Harry—"_

“Yes,” Harry groaned, palming Draco’s cock, rubbing him through the fabric. “Come on.”

“Luna could come back at any minute.” Draco whined and pushed Harry off.

Harry stepped back and he hit the kitchen island. He laughed. He was so bright and beautiful, it stole Draco’s breath away.

“Exactly. We don’t have long.” He teased the buckle of his belt. “Or have you changed your mind, Malfoy?”

With a growl that sounded barely human, Draco closed the gap between them and kissed him again, furious and possessive. He pressed his body flush against Harry’s, trapping him against the island. Harry let out a sigh that sounded entirely too delighted.

“You fucking tease, Potter. Is that why you followed me around? Showing up at my interviews? Is that how badly you want me to fuck you?”

“It was a coincidence, Malfoy,” Harry said between kisses, his hands working the fastenings of Draco’s trousers.

“Which time?”

Harry met his heated gaze with a triumphant smile. “The first time.”

Draco’s eyes dropped to Harry’s flies. The sneaky bastard had managed to open them and  pull his jeans and pants a few inches down. His long, beautiful cock was jutting out, hard and already leaking at the slit, and Draco ached to touch it.

“Turn around,” he rasped. “Let me see—”

Harry shifted and turned his back to Draco, his hands on the butcher block and his bare arse in the air.

Draco’s mouth went dry. His hands dropped to Harry’s arse cheeks, tentatively pulling them apart. Harry let out a soft whine at the touch, and Draco was powerless to resist. He dropped to his knees, his hands on Harry’s hips, his face level with his arse. Harry glanced at him over his shoulder, an almost nervous glint in his eye.

“What—?”

“Didn’t have the chance...last time,” Draco confessed, his breath hot against Harry’s bare skin. He felt Harry tremble under his palms. “Can I—kiss you?”

Harry let out a gasp. _“Yes.”_

Draco pulled the soft, rounded flesh apart with his thumbs, whispering a gentle cleaning spell. Harry’s entrance was furled and dark pink, twitching at the sudden exposure. Draco brought his lips to it and kissed—a wet, open-mouthed, sucking kiss that made Harry cry out above him.

“Fuck— _YES.”_

Draco pulled back with a smirk. He wet his lips for the next bit. “Can I lick you?”

“Yes,” Harry whined, pushing his arse back.

“Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes. Fuck, Draco. _Lick it._ Fuck me with your tongue, please...please do it, you fucking tease—”

Draco interrupted him by licking a wet stripe with the flat of his tongue. Harry bucked forward with a moan so loud that Draco hoped to Merlin, Circe and whatever other deity was watching that Luna’s errand had taken her far, far away from the house. He licked Harry again and again, saliva dripping down Harry’s cleft, his hole clenching and unclenching until Draco could finally slip the tip of his tongue inside. He pushed in, amazed by the incredible heat and tightness. _Fuck,_ why hadn’t he done this to Harry before? Harry was making the sweetest sounds above him, his legs shaking with the force of his pleasure. He pushed his arse against Draco’s face with tiny, needy thrusts, the tight muscle relaxing slowly under Draco’s tongue, so wet and ready for him. Suddenly, Draco had to fight the urge to stand and grab Harry’s hips, bend him over the island and mount him right then and there.

He rested his forehead against the small of Harry’s back, his chin wet with his own saliva. Panting, he watched the needy clench of Harry’s hole as he asked, “Do you still want me, Harry?”

Harry let out a strained laugh.

“Draco...if I don’t have your beautiful cock in me within the next five seconds, I swear, I will _Avada Kedavra_ you in the middle of this kitchen.”

Draco stood and wiped his chin with his sleeve. All he had to do was yank Harry’s trousers and pants further down his thighs in one swift move and settle right behind Harry. He braced his hand at Harry’s side, against the countertop. His erection caught against Harry’s crease, now slick with Draco’s own spit, and they both shivered.

“Harry,” Draco whispered into Harry’s hair. He conjured lube on his fingers and smeared it between Harry’s arse cheeks and then his own cock. “This is unfair. Why does this feel even better than the first time?”

Harry let out a shaky breath.“Because we waited for it,” he laughed, pushing his arse back against Draco’s cock. He started rocking, slow and breathless, the delicate drag of skin against the sensitive tip of Draco’s cock almost too good to bear. Draco bit his lip to keep from crying out. “Because— _ah!_ —because we both thought we’d never have this again, and now we do.”

“Harry—”

“Now, Draco. Fuck me. _Hard. Now. Please—”_

Draco pressed the swollen head of his cock against Harry’s entrance. It was still tight. He wanted to wait, but Harry rocked back, fitting Draco inside him an inch further.

“All right?” Draco asked, unsure what Harry would say. Unsure what he’d do, either way.

Harry gave a sharp nod. “It’s good...fuck, Draco, it’s good.”

Draco pushed in.

Harry let out a sharp exhale. It must have burned, but he didn’t ask Draco to stop. His hands clenched into fists on the countertop, the most heavenly moan escaping his mouth, and Draco, with rhythmic, shallow thrusts, finally pushed all the way in.

He leaned forward, breathed in Harry’s scent, kissed his nape.

“All right?”

“Yes. Go on.”

Draco pulled out a few inches, his hands gripping Harry’s hips, then slammed back in as Harry cried out. Draco did it again and again, every thrust rougher and needier than the one before, _blinded_ by the inexpressible pleasure of plowing into Harry’s tight, scorching heat. The kitchen was no longer quiet, filled instead with the filthy sounds of Draco’s flesh slapping against Harry’s arse, of Harry’s uninhibited moans, of his body rattling the cupboard doors with each of Draco’s thrusts. It was so good, and it’d been so long, and Draco didn’t want it to end, ever.

Harry braced his hands against the countertop and rammed back into Draco. “Will you touch me?” He sounded on the verge of begging. “Your hands on me...I need—”

Draco wrapped his fingers around Harry’s heavy cock and pulled. They found a rhythm for several heavenly minutes, their movements instinctual and easy. As if they’d done this a thousand times, Draco pumping Harry’s prick as he fucked him from behind, Harry matching the rocking of his body to drive Draco’s cock deeper into him, while pushing his own cock deeper into Draco’s tight fist. Draco dropped his forehead on Harry’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a silent cry as he felt Harry tense and jerk, splashing the cupboards with his hot come. His arse clenched, gripping Draco sinfully tight until Draco came too. His cock throbbed, slicking Harry’s arse anew, and he pinned him to the island with his last few, powerful thrusts.

Panting, Draco pulled out. He watched his softening cock as it slid out of Harry.

Harry moved with a soft whine, Draco’s come dripping down his leg as he did. Chest heaving, he muttered a quick _Scourgify_ that skittered across the counter and floors, tickling Draco’s skin. He pulled his pants and jeans back up, then turned.

His face was shiny and pink, his glasses fogged and askew. His eyes were guarded, but he was wearing a small, smug smile that made Draco’s heart flutter. Merlin, he might never want to pull his pants back up again…

_Pants._

_Fuck._

“Fuck,” Draco swore out loud. He adjusted his clothing hastily, buttoning up his trousers as the rest of the world came back into focus.

Luna’s kitchen.

His satchel on the floor, propped against the wall.

The Prothimioscope still spinning merrily at the end of the island’s countertop.

He rubbed his face, mortified. “Harry, I’m so sorry. Merlin. That was the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done.”

Harry burst out laughing.

Draco watched him, bewildered. “How is that funny?”

“Draco...” Harry tapped his fingers to his lips, his eyes wide and full of mirth. “It was. It was a truly terrible thing. We just defiled our dear friend’s kitchen.”

“Oh,” Draco covered his mouth, half-hoping to hide his horrified, delighted grin. “Oh, we did. Salazar, we’re the worst friends ever.”

“As if that woman didn't know exactly what she was doing.”

“True. How many plant-based emergencies can one have in a day?”

They shared a look, smothering their giggles behind their hands like schoolboys.

“What about Neville?” Harry asked. “You reckon he was on board with Luna’s diabolical plan to have us fuck again?”

“Nobody could look that innocent and be entirely guiltless, Potter.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. He gazed at Draco, fond and bashful. “Do you—does it bother you? That we fucked here, after your work was done?”

“Yes,” Draco said. At Harry’s doubtful expression, he stepped closer. “And no.” He touched his fingers to Harry’s jaw, gently tilting his chin until their eyes met. “Ideally, I would have picked a more romantic spot for our first time back together again. But really, anywhere would do, if I could have you again.”

“We cleaned everything,” Harry shrugged playfully. “Their kitchen is as good as new.”

The smile stretching Draco’s lips made it harder to kiss Harry, but Draco did it anyway. When they broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against Harry’s. He breathed in and out.

And decided to ask once more.

“Will you let me interview you, Harry?”

“What?” Harry huffed a disbelieving laugh. “No!”

“Why not?”

Harry eyed the Prothimioscope. “Wait...was everything we just did _on the record?”_

Draco leaned in and trapped the device under his palm. It stopped spinning, and he stuffed it in his pocket. “Of course not. That’s not how it works. It just indicates—”

“—willingness.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I was _very willing,_ it’s true.” Harry waggled his eyebrows. Draco laughed, thoroughly charmed. It felt brilliant to finally be able to do so in Harry’s presence. “You can’t ask me for an interview after sex. I’m weak and pliant, and I could agree to anything. It’s unfair.”

“Let me get this straight. Asking _me_ to fuck you when I can barely see straight from how much I want you is allowed. But asking _you_ to do an interview with me isn’t?”

Harry shook his head. There was no annoyance in the gesture, just affection. “Draco...I was being honest when I said this hadn’t anything to do with you. You know I don’t do interviews. Not with you. Not with anyone. And I never will.”

“But...it would mean _so much—”_  He stopped himself, not wanting to spoil the moment.

“Maybe,” Harry sighed. “I know what the public sees in me. But at the end of the day, Draco...I’ve dealt with the past the same way all my friends have. The same way _you_ have. Years of therapy. Dealing with plaguing nightmares, with agoraphobia, with chronic insomnia. We’re all broken, in one way or another. We all try to repair ourselves. I’m no different than the other survivors, and neither are you. Why would I be more special, more unique than my friends? Like Luna said, I’m just... _me._ I am done exposing myself, worrying how every one of my words could be understood or interpreted. I need to do what is good for me. And I’d decided, years ago, that what was good for me was staying away from the media.”

Hands on his hips, Draco hung his head. “Okay. So it’s not that you don’t think I’m worthy of interviewing you?”

“Draco, I have tremendous respect for your work. If I let anyone write anything about me, it would be _you._ Please don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t. And I won’t write anything about you.”

“Oh.” Harry lifted an eyebrow. “So you won’t sneak boastful details about how good a lay I am in your article about Luna?”

“You know, I debated it, but it _might_ clash with the tone of the series a tad.”

“Prat.”

“Wanker.”

“Come here.” Harry pulled Draco by the wrist and wrapped him in his arms. Draco feigned a long-suffering sigh.

“Now I’ll have to make my peace with never having Harry Potter on my journalistic wall of fame.”

“Sorry.” Harry did not look sorry at all. He looked smug and well-shagged. Draco was so elated, he could have floated to the ceiling had Harry not been anchoring him with the strong weight of his arms around his waist. “At least you got to _have me_ on Luna and Neville’s kitchen island.”

“A notable benefit. But...it’s a shame. It would have been quite an unforgettable interview.”

Harry pulled back and gazed into Draco’s eyes, joyful and intimate. “You know...it could be just as unforgettable the other way around.” He laughed at Draco’s perplexed frown. “Listen...I have an idea.”

 

*~*~*

**Epilogue**

 

 ** _Unpublished notes for the Battle of_** **_Hogwarts anniversary Issue of_** **The Spellbound Herald,** ** _May 2008_**

**Draco Malfoy, interviewed by Harry Potter [Quick-Quotes Quill unedited version]**

 

 **Harry Potter [H.P.]** _[pokes Prothimioscope]:_ Is this thing on?

 **Draco Malfoy [D.M.]:** Do we need to have that conversation again? There's no ‘on’ or ‘off’. It's not _Muggle._ Leave it alone, Potter.

 **H.P.:** _[lifts an eyebrow]_ Oh, I’m _Potter_ now?

 **D.M.:** Do you want to be fired before we even start?

 **H.P.:** _[smug]_ No, sir.

 **D.M.:** _[blushes]_ Dammit. No bedroom talk at work, Harry! We went over this, for Merlin’s sake.

 **H.P.:** _[innocent]_ Oh, did we?

 **D.M.:** Bugger, now the Quill wrote it down. Oh, sweet Salazar. Remind me to edit it out later.

 **H.P.:** All right, I'll get started then. Mmh. _[Looks at note cards]_ Thank you for meeting me. I don't know if you know this, but I've admired your work for years.

 **D.M.:** You have?

 **H.P.:** Yep.

 **D.M.:** From _afar,_ then.

 **H.P.:** Regretfully. I mean, we were friendly acquaintances for years, but...I didn't quite know how to approach you. See, I had the biggest, most embarrassing crush on you.

 **D.M.:** _[smiles slowly]_ Did you?

 **H.P.:** _[laughs]_ Don’t give me that look. I know for a fact that you’ve fancied me since we were kids.

 **D.M.:** I doubt I’ve ever admitted to that.

 **H.P.:** You did the other night, when I was bending you over the bathroom sink and you—”

 **D.M.:** _[laughs, scandalised]_ Harry! What I _confess_ to you in the throes of an orgasm doesn’t count. To quote a certain celebrity wizard, you can’t ‘ask me for things when I’m weak and pliant’.

 **H.P.:** Oh? And who’s that celebrity wizard you’re referring to? Should I be jealous?

 **D.M.:** _[gazes at Harry fondly]_ Can this stay between us, please? And not us and the entire _Spellbound Herald_ readership?

 **H.P.:** _[looks pleased, clears throat]_ Fine. I've wanted to tell you for a while how important I think your series is. It’s lifted the mystique surrounding the Second Wizarding War heroes. You’ve met with rather successful witches and wizards. But I know it’s also difficult for those who’ve been through the war to bridge the gap with the rest of society. We’re like...misfits on a pedestal. Your project has made us more human. It's made a real difference. _[pauses]_ Thank you.

 **D.M.:** _[blushes, quiet]_ ...

 **H.P.:** I wanted to know if you realised the impact your series could have when you started it.

 **D.M.:** It would be insincere of me to tell you I didn’t expect _Portraits_ to make an impression. This whole endeavour had ‘Best Seller’ written all over it from the beginning. I mean...I managed to recruit some pretty big names for it. Who _wouldn’t_ read exclusive interviews of Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Blaise Zabini, Fleur Delacour or George Weasley? _[hesitates]_ The real question is, is anybody going to be interested in an interview of Draco Malfoy?

 **H.P.:** I, for one, am _very_ interested.

 **D.M.:** You’re not exactly impartial, though.

 **H.P.:** Oh, come on. You’re just as interesting as the other people you’ve interviewed. Retellings of war can be so...black and white. I should know; I’ve been painted all-white or all-black for as long as I can remember. You, on the other hand...you’re the opposite of that. You don't fit into any of  the boxes. You’ve made some tough choices in a context that didn’t make it easy for you to do so.

 **D.M.:** I doubt that’s how people perceive me. I’m a controversial figure, at best. I didn’t exactly start off on the good side of the last Wizarding War.

 **H.P.:** No. You didn’t really have a choice, either.

 **D.M.:** It’s not that simple. I did have a choice—a choice that would have estranged me from my entire family and put my life at risk, certainly, but a choice, nonetheless. The tragic reality of it is...I _believed_ I was on the right side. At first, I believed in the ideals my parents had been feeding me for years. It was only after seeing those ideals in practice that I realised how horrifically wrong I had been. By that point, it was too late for me to back out.

 **H.P.:** You did back out, though.

 **D.M.:** I still don’t feel I did, ten years later.

 **H.P.:** You said you had a choice, as if miseducation and misinformation doesn’t count as coercion.

 **D.M.:** You make it sound like I was brainwashed. That wasn’t my impression, at the time.

 **H.P.:** That’s the power of it though, isn’t it? Making you think you’re a willing participant. Upbringing and family ties can be harder to shrug off than an _Imperius._

 **D.M.:** _[stares at Harry for a minute]_ You’re portraying me as one of the good guys.

 **H.P.:** But…?

 **D.M.:** But I _wasn’t._ I wasn’t a good guy. I wasn’t even a good _kid._ I was spoilt and hateful, and I looked down at everyone who wasn’t like me. And the worst part was that I was still envious of the things others had that I didn’t, as if the world were nothing but a zero-sum game.

 **H.P.:** I’m sorry you felt that way.

 **D.M.:** _I’m_ sorry _you_ were at the receiving end of my bullying quite often.

 **H.P.:** Do you still think of yourself as one of the ‘bad guys’?

 **D.M.:** You’re asking difficult questions.

 **H.P.:** Ha. That’s my job, isn’t it?

 **D.M.:** Don’t get too cocky, Potter. _[pauses]_ Yes; I do still feel that way...and I don’t. I know it’s a coward’s answer. _[shakes head, smiles ruefully]_ I’ll always have regrets about the things I did before and during the war. I’ve spent...I’ve spent years in therapy trying to sort out my feelings about my past. In the end, I think my therapist was more willing to forgive me than I ever could. I know I was just a kid back then...but so were _you._ And look how differently we handled our situations.

“But at the same time, I _don’t_ feel that way anymore. I hope the good I’ve done since the war surpasses and outlasts my past actions. I might never apologise enough for them, but I’m also sick of apologising for them, you know? There’s a delicate balance between fruitless remorse and indulgent self-satisfaction, but I need elements of both. Remorse keeps me on the right track. Pride in who I’ve become gives me a reason to keep going.

 **H.P.:** Thank you for your honest answer.

 **D.M.:** _[shrugs]_ It’s given freely.

 **H.P.:** You’re known as a journalist and for your continuous efforts to improve the integrity of the press, more than for your role during the war. A lot was written about you since, and most of your readers probably have the impression that they know you fairly well. Do you think there’s something they don't know about you yet?

 **D.M.:** They might not know I’ve an open invitation to all of the Holyhead Harpies matches—courtesy of my friend Blaise’s beautiful fiancée. They also might not know that I’m a rather good pastry chef.

 **H.P.:** Pastries? How come _I_ don’t know about that?!

 **D.M.:** Well, if we spent more time in the kitchen together…

 **H.P.:** _[lifts eyebrow]_...

 **D.M.:** _[puts face in hands]_ ...and _not_ eating each other’s arses! Merlin, how much of this interview am I going to have to edit out later? _[grumbles]_ To answer your question, if you did spend more time in the kitchen with me, you'd know.

 **H.P.:** _[laughs]_ Okay, okay. Oh, I have a good one! _[shuffles through note cards]_ Here it is. If you were to make a badge about me now, what would it say?

 **D.M.:** It would still say ‘Potter Stinks’.

 **H.P.:** Oh, I still stink, do I?

 **D.M.:** I kind of like it when you come back all sweaty from Quidditch practice…

 **H.P.:** Oh, god. Stop giving me that look. Now who’s being inappropriate?

 **D.M.:** I can’t help it when you’re sitting here looking all proper and professional, with your glasses and your notes and your rugged good looks.

 **H.P.:** You...like it? Me doing this journalist...thing?

 **D.M.:** I don’t... _not_ like it.

 **H.P.:** _[grins rather sharply]_ Interesting…

 **D.M.:** _[squirms, readjusts trousers]_ Next question. _Please?_

 **H.P.:** There was a variety of reactions when our relationship became public. I assume you expected that. However...did anything surprise you in the midst of the media turmoil? Anything you didn’t expect?

 **D.M.:** In the beginning, all I could see was the negative. Public opinion about me might be more favourable than in the past, yet I doubt I was Wizarding Britain’s favourite candidate for Harry Potter’s partner. I’ll admit, I was scared at first. Scared that you’d change your mind about us.

 **H.P.:** _[frowns]_ Draco. You know that would never have happened.

 **D.M.:** Rationally, I knew, yes. But people act in unexpected ways when they feel cornered…when they feel judged. I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’m glad you didn’t, though.

 **H.P.:** _[hangs head, reaches out for Draco’s hand]_ …

 **D.M.:** _[takes proffered hand]_ ...I sure would have missed that gorgeous arse of yours if you had.

 **H.P.:** _[bursts out laughing]_ Damnit, Draco!

 **D.M.:** All right, I’ll be serious. Something I didn’t expect was how supportive the people who truly mattered were. Your friends and family, especially. I’ve had a healthy fear of Hermione specifically, ever since she punched me when we were schoolkids. I half-expected her to repeat her performance after finding out I was shagging you. _[mutters]_ Another thing I’ll have to edit out later, obviously.

 **H.P.:** _[smug]_ Did she give you a little ‘I’ll hunt you down and kick your arse if you hurt my friend’ speech?

 **D.M.:** Sometimes I wish she had. It would clarify the definition of what constitutes ‘hurting you’. Get the words out there. Now, I live in constant fear of upsetting you and finding myself in the trajectory of her mean right hook.

 **H.P.:** I have one last question.

 **D.M.:** Do you? I thought you’d read all your note cards.

 **H.P.:** Shhh. I’m the one doing the interview here.

 **D.M.:** Okay…

 **H.P.:** What’s it like to have such a wonderful, sexy boyfriend?

 **D.M.:** Well. I don’t know, Potter. You tell me. It rather seems like a question for _you,_ doesn’t it?

 **H.P.:** _[smiles fondly]_ You’re impossible.

 **D.M.:** Oh, _please._ You love it.

 **H.P.:** I do. And that was actually the last question. _[Folds notes]_ I think that’s it?

 **D.M.:** Yes. Thank you, love.

 

**_[Prothimioscope stops. End of interview.]_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to tackle several aspects of consent in this fic.
> 
> (Enthusiastic) sexual consent, obviously, which I hope came through quite clearly here :)  
> Consent to pursue a love interest—or leave him alone—after he made it clear he wasn't interested (or at least, you _thought_ he wasn't).  
> Consent and media, and the (well-founded) worry that one's words could be distorted or misinterpreted by the person doing the interview.  
> Consent in a relationship and exploring how agreeing to some things (such as sex) doesn't equal agreeing to _everything_ (such as giving in on matters that are personal boundaries and/or important to someone).
> 
> I hope I showed each of those elements of consent the proper attention, care, and respect.
> 
> Update: Psst, [ElleGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LGray/profile) made [the most gorgeous moodboard](https://lettersbyelise.tumblr.com/post/184018743291/consent-fest-fic-claim) for this fic, because she's awesome and just _that talented_. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!  
> Kudos and comments are welcome ❤️ Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lettersbyelise)!


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